


This Is Me Trying

by blanchettstruck



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25669183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchettstruck/pseuds/blanchettstruck
Summary: Phryne tries to talk to Jack. Set between Blood At The Wheel and Blood of Juana The Mad.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 47





	This Is Me Trying

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing an angst oneshot! Feedback is much appreciated.

He stormed off, closing the door with a click so heavy that it could have sunk a thousand ships at once. She stared at the emptiness, all the bright colors of her parlor fading as his dry words echoed in her mind.

How could he? How _dare_ he? 

How dare he come into her life unexpected, dressed in smart suits and nonchalance, deflecting all her attempts with a sideway smile and Shakespeare quotes. 

How dare he accept her liquor, offer his strong arms to help - even if she didn’t need anybody’s help, let alone a man’s - without asking for anything in return… Only to turn his back on her like this? Because he thought she had died? What, for Christ’s sake, did that even mean?

She downed what was left of the amber-colored liquor, briefly contemplating another glass, but cursing him in the process: he had ruined that for her as well. Maybe a drive would clear her head, but she didn’t quite trust herself to get behind the Hispano’s steering wheel right now and not end up at his place, guided by nothing but hollow anger. She could do it, except she didn’t have his exact address.

How dare he make himself at home in her parlor night after night, and in her kitchen day after day, without so much as showing her a glimpse of his own door?

Maybe the reason why she didn’t see it coming was because the comfort of his constant presence had blinded her to how thin was the line they had been walking since that very first day at Lydia’s mansion; a fragile line that was bound to break, eventually. She just didn’t think he would be the one doing so. 

The silence and stillness of her surroundings were, at that moment, nothing but a loud reminder of her own speechlessness. She was so bewildered that he would be willing to walk away from everything, words simply failed her. Phryne Fisher, the woman who always, always had something to say; a witty remark, a quick retort. She wasn’t always proud of being effuse, true, but this brought more embarrassment and felt more like defeat than anything else. 

How dare he accept her silence as an answer and leave without even giving her the chance to recover and get back at him?

***

Finding out his address was the easiest part, specially compared to dealing with his absence and the incessant urge of running into him to say that she was doing just fine by herself, sleuthing and all. She had been working on a few small cases that kept her busy during the day and sometimes at night, too. She was attending parties; she was avoiding certain Melbourne streets and late drinks in her own parlor, and secretly thanking Dot for not asking about _the inspector_ whilst also hoping she would let slip any piece of information learned from Hugh. 

She was so busy, in fact, that her own late night drives took her by surprise. She was just catching some air, she would tell herself. She was just trying to clear her head with something other than a stiff drink. She was just getting acquainted with his neighborhood, and checking out the flashy jazz club three blocks away from his leafy street. 

“Goodnight, Miss Fisher” said the waiter as she put her extravagant white coat back on, and that’s when she realized that she was, quite literally, tired of driving in circles. An epiphany of sorts, propelled by anger and hard liquor. He should hear it, how cowardly of him it had been to walk away like that, how selfish. And she would say it, how wrong she had been to let him in so blindly, to lend her talents to help him catch criminals, to treat him as part of her chosen family. 

“Can’t trust no copper, Miss”, is what Bert and Cec would say, had they known.

***

Her steps were determined, and soon she found herself knocking on his door. Would he be home or buried in work? Or buried in someone else’s arms? The former was possible; the latter, rather unlikely. But then again, the evidence showed that he was still an unsolved mystery. 

“Jack” she said, immediately noticing that the stern tone she had in mind sounded nothing like the plea that came out of her mouth. “Damn, it, Jack”, she tried to fix it.

“Have you been drinking, Miss Fisher?”, the concern in his voice was mirrored by a furrowed brow. “Phryne”, he scowled, and his evident worry both stung and soothed her. 

“Aren’t you going to invite me in, inspector? You used to be polite.” You used to be a lot of things, she thought, bitterly. 

“Familiar enough with the neighborhood streets and that one place I have been dreaming of shutting down, are we? Come in, please.”

Deciding to ignore his remark as well as his lack of surprise, she stepped into the most familiar unfamiliar place she had ever seen- it was just as she imagined it would be: plenty of charm and no grandeur, just like the man himself. 

It felt odd to sit down in his living room, but down she sat, regardless, because she couldn’t bear it in case her legs faltered, out of sheer anger or whatever it was that she felt bubbling up inside. 

“Here. Third time’s a charm, I suppose” he said, offering her a whiskey and proceeding to take a sip of his. 

She took the glass, but simply held it with both hands, her clear blue eyes quietly asking a million questions. What was the best way to put them into words, she was not sure; and again, it was an unfamiliar feeling, for the times she’d had to deal with that kind of uncertainty were buried deep inside many layers, shielded by loud laughter and colorful sequin. She didn’t have that many regrets in life, however, and surely not speaking her mind right now wasn’t about to be short-listed. So, she inhaled as deeply as the current situation allowed.

“I came here to say that I’m angry, Jack. But I’m not quite sure the feeling still stands; disappointed may be a better word for it. All this wasted potential, Jack. It isn’t fair.” 

And silent she fell, looking small and fragile in a way that very few people had witnessed before. Jack Robinson himself being one of them, a few months back, on the day she was finally able to put her sister to rest. He had been there for her, a constant presence, someone she could lean on. She wasn’t even leaning against his armchair this time.

The man swallowed the invisible lump in his throat, deciding to focus on his drink for the time being. What could he possibly say? How could he possibly make her understand that this hadn’t been easy for him, either? How could he possibly clarify that the mere thought of losing her brought back some of the worst loss-related memories he inevitably carried around with him, wherever he went? She had lived through the war, too, did she not know how it felt? Wasn’t it the noble thing to do, take a step back when he knew for a fact he could never, would never ask her to change her nature in order to accommodate his feelings? 

When the inspector finally looked up from the glass in his hand, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed; for all he knew, it could have been a minute or an hour: the sharp breaths from both people in the room seemed to be the closest thing to the cruel ticking of a clock that marked the end of a golden age far too short for his liking, but one that not even in his wildest dreams did he imagine he would experience. 

The sight of her just sitting there, on his old armchair, was enough to allow doubt to creep in. Had he misjudged the situation? Maybe letting go of everything they could be had been a mistake...

No, he ought to stand his ground. Jack Robinson wasn’t a selfish man, and he knew that even thinking of wanting to change who Phryne was would be a selfish act, thus walking away was what must be done, even if it left open wounds that maybe not even time would heal. He was a wounded man, after all. 

Perhaps time would be enough to make her understand his decision, though. And for now, this would have to do. The prospect that, one day, she would not resent him like this. 

“Have you nothing to say, Jack?” 

The small flicker of hope in her eyes forced him to look down again. 

“I’m afraid I would just be repeating myself, Miss Fisher”, he resigned. 

“Very well. I can’t say I haven’t tried”, she sighed, hopeless. The only certainty that she felt in her bones was that nothing was well. 

Phryne placed the whiskey glass on a small table next to the armchair, its content still untouched.

“I didn’t drink it, in order to drive home safely” was what she wanted to say, but she simply didn’t have the strength to attack him anymore, she just wanted to get home. 

“I will see myself out, inspector” was what she said instead, then closed the door behind her without looking back.

**Author's Note:**

> When Taylor Swift drops an album out of the blue, Folklore-inspired fan fiction must follow. Wrote this listening to This is me trying: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bdLTPNrlEg 
> 
> My heartfelt thanks to Sunny for reading through this and encouraging me to finish it. <3


End file.
